


I Used to Live Alone (Before I Knew You)

by compo67



Series: Punzel Verse [26]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Childhood Trauma, Coffee Shops, Emotional Hurt, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Family Issues, Hurt Jared, Internal Conflict, M/M, Mpreg, Poetry, Post Mpreg, Siblings, Song Lyrics, Timestamp, Trust Issues, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8579062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: For every shirt Jared folds, his mind nags at him to pay attention to his emotional well-being. He tries, more than once, to tell his mind to fuck off. It’s two in the morning. He couldn’t sleep, partially because the living room couches he’s been sleeping on were not meant to be used as beds. And partially because he always sleeps like shit without Jensen next to him. A week and a half is a long time for anyone to argue, but especially for them.





	

Jared is used to ridiculous questions.

When he was pregnant, anyone and everyone felt that they just _had_ to ask: when was he due?

How many? Three?

Was he sure? Really sure?

But how? Did he take fertility drugs? How much? And really, three?

People still ask questions about the kids. Are they all his? Really? All out at once? Did he take fertility drugs? What kinds? How does he manage? Does he have help? Is he sure he didn’t take any drugs? What about IVF? Did he consider keeping one and adopting the rest? Did he take herbs? Maybe it was something in the water?

It never stops there, either.

No one accepts the fact that there are four adults, all legal parents, in their home. And yes, they all live together. No one just rolls with this fact. Oh, really? Four parents? So like, do they swing? Switch? Do they trade partners according to the phases of the moon? Are there orgies every night? How much sex did Jared have to get pregnant with triplets? Are the kids ever confused about who is who? Who pays the bills? What happens when there are disagreements over decisions? How do they cram seven people in one house? Jared can’t possibly be happy, can he?

Is he happy?

The more Jared thinks about that question, the less ridiculous it seems. And that scares the shit out of him.

For the past six years he’s been able to provide an immediate, one hundred percent confident response.

His doubt isn’t even the beginning of this latest bout of ridiculousness. He rarely has the time or energy to seriously examine his emotions or state of mind. Eating a hot meal has become a personal struggle in the past three months. The kids start first grade in less than a week and no one has any time to spare. Jared frequently wants to kick his past self in the ass for thinking he could handle a three credit college class, working part-time at Matilda’s, and preparing three kids for the first grade all at once--plus laundry.

For every shirt Jared folds, his mind nags at him to pay attention to his emotional well-being. He tries, more than once, to tell his mind to fuck off. It’s two in the morning. He couldn’t sleep, partially because the living room couches he’s been sleeping on for the past week and a half were not meant to be used as beds. And partially because he always sleeps like shit without Jensen next to him.

A week and a half is a long time for anyone to argue, but especially for them.

So here he is. Folding clothes for three six year olds. And feeling particularly miserable and irritated.

He tried folding along to whatever he could find on TV, but everything ramped up the slow and steady clench of his jaw. Even the infomercials that usually knock him out couldn’t provide relief. No, he could not just, “Set it and forget it.” He didn’t give two fucks if there were operators standing by or that he would only have to pay shipping and handling.

After burying the remote under the couch cushions, Jared then tried classical music. This helped for about six shirts, but it backfired once his mind started nagging at him to the melody of Brahms.

It’s not like he never thought about his brother after their falling out in Anaheim.

There were plenty of moments--for better or worse--when Tristan entered his mind. Any time someone, or even himself, mentioned that Hailey and Kaylee are identical twins, he was reminded that he too is an identical twin.

Being a twin in rural Texas is how the very first ridiculous questions in Jared’s life started.

In a town that marveled at the invention of microwaves, being a twin was a curiosity. People genuinely thought that Jared and Tristan had a psychic connection or telepathic powers. Others believed twins were a sign of bad luck, or an omen from God. Whatever people believed, it was never anything positive. They could all decide on one thing: Jared and Tristan were not normal.

To an extent, those people were right. Jared never wanted to be rural Texas normal.

They were close when they were kids. Right up until just before middle school. Kids in grade school made comments or deliberately never invited them to parties, but it hadn’t mattered so much because they had each other. Social standing wasn’t a thing in grade school. But that’s the center of the universe to most teenagers. Tristan happened to want to be normal--desperately so. He wanted to be Tristan, not Jared’s twin brother.

For a while, Jared understood the distance. He got it. Their family and homelife was less than ideal. So he didn’t blame Tristan for always being out, sneaking out, or about to sneak out. He didn’t mind--too much, anyway--all the times Tristan came home smelling like gasoline and tobacco and stinking up their room.

Jared didn’t mind being alone until he felt lonely.

Loneliness gnawed away at him.

It threatened to leave him barren--make him into One of Them. He didn’t understand how the one person in the whole world that should support him, be there for him, wasn’t. How the one person in the whole world who shared his DNA and had the exact same face and features as him couldn’t hardly stand to look at him. Tristan upgraded from never being around to publically denouncing any connection to Jared. Jared knew that if they hadn’t had the same face and features, Tristan would have denounced him completely.

So it’s not just Anaheim.

And although they don’t share a psychic bond or otherworldly powers, Jared knows--he can feel it with absolute certainty--that Tristan is withholding something. There’s some information that he’s keeping to himself, for whatever reason. Or maybe, he’s just not telling Jared. Maybe Jensen knows.

That’s another thing.

All Jared ever wanted was for his brother to be his friend. And now, after all this time, Tristan can suddenly be friends with Jensen?

“Shit,” Jared sighs and sets down one of the billions of shirts in need of folding. He runs his right hand through his hair, long now, because he hasn’t had any extra time to get it cut. Instead of feeling soothed by the motion, his fingers get caught in a few stubborn knots. Great. Just great.

What happened to his happy go lucky, optimistic, problem-solving, upbeat self?

Is it fair to blame it all on Tristan?

And even if it isn’t, can he?

For two easy payments of $24.99, can he write off this whole mess?

Maybe he can slowly deal with his brother. Maybe. Or at least continue to be the one in control of boundaries and interactions. Calling the shots now gives him that sense of control he never had growing up. Tristan is technically older by a full fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes in between babies. Jared couldn’t have possibly related to that fact when he was growing up.

“Mommy?” A small, frightened voice instantly breaks through the roar of Jared’s thoughts.

He doesn’t have to turn to know whose voice it is. He knows his kids. He knows their voices in every pitch, tone, and volume. “Bailey, honey, what’s wrong?”

Jared maintains open body language and makes sure his expression matches the concern he feels. And his voice is definitely soft. Despite all of this, Bailey hesitates. Dressed in his dinosaur pajamas, he stands at the edge of the living room and does not move towards Jared.

Goosebumps form over Jared’s arms. His mind provides every possible thing that might be wrong. Did he wet the bed? Bad dream? No, something more. Does he have a fever? Is he sick? Do they need to go to the ER? Should he wake up Misha and get a second opinion? What if he broke his arm earlier and Jared just didn’t notice? What if it’s the flu?

One tiny hand raises up to wipe away tears.

Every cell in Jared’s body screams the same command. Within seconds, he scoops Bailey up, hugging him tight, cradling him against his chest.

Something awful drops into Jared’s stomach and stabs at his insides like the blades on chariot wheels. These aren’t tears sprung from a nightmare or nausea or anxiety. These are sobs. These are the heaves and gulps and tremors of someone carrying a weight on their shoulders.

The final stab to his gut comes out five minutes later.

Buried in Jared’s chest, Bailey mutters before crying again.

“I looked for you in your room and you weren’t there.”

 

Everyone in Jared’s immediate circle has known the recent status of his relationship with Jensen, whether they asked or not. That didn’t include the kids--until now. Somehow, Jared and Jensen were able to either function somewhat normally in front of them or avoid each other altogether. Their schedules--maybe possibly purposefully--conflicted so they weren’t in the house at the same time for more than ten minutes in the morning or the afternoon. Jared told Bailey that he wasn’t in bed because he couldn’t sleep and decided to fold laundry instead, which, to an extent is not a lie.

But it still isn’t the truth.

And he doesn’t want to be the kind of parent who tells versions of the truth.

Even more distressing to Jared is the lack of information he received from Bailey. His oldest refused to speak more than two words together. He even refused to fall asleep without Jared there. They laid together in Bailey’s bed for almost half an hour, until Bailey fell asleep from exhaustion.

Stress weighs down on Jared. A headache that hasn’t truly left since Monday reigns over his Saturday morning. Three six year olds need to be woken up, dressed, and fed breakfast. The little sleep he managed to get--a whole three hours--taunts him as he yawns while trudging up the stairs. Their plans are to go to the park for a morning activity, have lunch, and then for Jared to go to work for four hours.

Jared wills himself to perk up. Smile. Stay positive. He doesn’t have to wake the kids up, not even Bailey, who has made his way to Hailey’s bed to play with a few stuffed animals. But he does have to pick out their outfits, herd them to the bathroom, and attend to them one by one. He sits Kaylee down on the counter by the sink and spends ten minutes untangling her hair and putting them up in pigtails as demanded. Hailey doesn’t want pigtails--she’s not a copycat, she tells Jared with a huff--but she wants bows in her hair. Jared reminds her that her barrettes are not for digging up worms from the ground. He’s not entirely sure she registers this voice.

Bailey stays quiet and makes no demand. He has no preference for anything, even when Jared gives him some options.

Worry ramps up that headache. Jared’s eyes hurt. He brushes everyone’s hair except his own, gets them all into clean clothes, except himself.

Once he has them seated in the dining room, fatigue digs into his lower back.

In the kitchen, he confides to Misha. The park might as well be three continents away.

“It’s okay,” Misha soothes, as they prepare breakfast. “That’s what a backyard is for.”

It's not really okay. Jared knows he hasn't been pulling his weight with parenting responsibilities as of late. He's also been dozing off in class. Snapping at customers--who may or may not have deserved it. It's tough to tell.

The energy to even attempt an apology or an alternate plan flees from Jared's body. He manages breakfast with Misha's help. Kaylee attempts to help out at the table by flinging a strawberry at Hailey. She then decides that Bailey shouldn't be left out and pitches an orange slice that hits him directly on the nose. Before they know it, Misha and Jared transform into bouncers; they pry Kaylee and Bailey away from each other and beg Hailey to stop crying for just one second.

In the end, no one gets to go to the park or to the backyard.

And in the end, Jared skids into work fifteen minutes late because of an unfortunate beetle incident thanks to one of his six year old daughters with a spirit for creative revenge.

Matilda doesn't say anything until the line out the door disappears. Hands on her hips, tattoos out on display, she comments. “You look like warm shit on toast, Jared. What in the hell happened?”

Warm shit on toast sounds appetizing. He didn't really get to eat breakfast. Or lunch.

And although he appreciates Matilda's concern, especially as his employer since she doesn't technically have to ask, his answer crumbles in the face of a customer ordering a medium something with no something and easy on the something else.

Jared turns on his autopilot and tries his best to solve one problem in his head at a time. He steams milk and pumps mocha and shakes whipped cream canisters. His hands move, though not with their usual ease, and he keeps trying to blow the stray strands of hair from his bandana out of his eyes. What the hell is he going to do? Where does he start? Problems and concerns form a ball of yarn in his mind. Untangling and making sense of everything presents a challenge to his sleep deprived mind. But he can do this. He can and will figure this out, because that's what he does. He goes in and kicks ass.

“Hi,” a faceless blob of a customer snips from the end of the counter. “I asked for soy, not almond milk, and I specifically mentioned three sugars not four. Hello? Are you listening?”

It would be inaccurate to say that it didn't hurt when Bailey refused to tell Jared what was wrong. How can mommy make things better when mommy doesn't know exactly what's going on? The girls haven't revealed any insight on their brother either, but they have noticed the change in his disposition. Now he's just cranky. No fun. And it throws their dynamic off balance.

Can they stay this close always?

Can they promise him to never turn their backs on each other? Can they make sure they support their siblings through thick and thin, pinky promise?

Jensen is an only child. He's never had the perspective of a sibling. So he can't know what it's like to reach out to one and have the door repeatedly slammed in his face. It's not the same with parents. Siblings are entirely different, especially an identical twin.

But then why couldn't Jensen just say something sooner about befriending Tristan? He didn't have to honor Tristan's ridiculous and insensitive request. It's so like Tristan to do that, too, get close to Jensen even though Jensen was his friend first. Why should he share? Tristan had his chance. And whatever he wants now--money, time, companionship, money--Jared wants nothing to do with it. This is the man who asked to borrow money from him while he was working at Disneyland and pregnant with triplets.

God dammit.

Is he being childish? Bitter? Completely unreasonable? Would it have killed Tristan to let him tag along with his friends in high school? Or let him sleep on the bed instead of the couch after a long night of throwing up? Or maybe just stay out of his life and spare him the act of dredging up so much hurt and unpleasantness?

And all of this happens not too long after Jensen and Jared agreed to have more kids. Jared doesn’t want the age gap between the triplets and their new sibling to be so wide, so they need to start moving along. He already went through the whole accidental pregnancy once, this time, he aims to plan ahead.

This is the first time he’s ever called into question his trust in Jensen.

It’s a horrible feeling that leaves his stomach in knots and shoulders tense.

He isn’t anywhere near the end of the ball of yarn. School looms over him. He no longer participates in class and what little energy he has, he saves for catering jobs on the side. It’s been great to have a little extra money, especially from doing something he typically enjoys, but tasting the frosting or figuring out recipes just doesn’t motivate him to get out of bed in the morning. And he’s developed a perplexing aversion to sweets lately, highly unusual, and incredibly depressing because he has always coped with stress by eating large amounts of sugar.

The kids are starting first grade. He still hasn’t recovered from the effort it took to find the right school with the right staff who wouldn’t stare at them bug-eyed when they explained that their family has four parents. It was exhausting for everyone--the adults and kids--to prepare, to interview, and to tour. First grade is a big deal. Jared might just blink and the kids will be going to college. But it was not so long ago that he held them for the first time. Not so long ago that he was on that Greyhound bus from Texas to California.

Not so long ago that he showed up at the Storybook Canal because he couldn’t take the smell of ice cream at Gibson’s anymore.

Why does every memory hurt?

Is he always going to carry around this baggage? How long has it sat there in the corner of his mind? What--

The contents of a large iced coffee splash across Jared’s face.

It hits him like thunder. Coffee and almond milk drip from his hair, into his ears, nose, eyes…

With one hand, Jared wipes the mess away from his eyes, and with the other, he reaches across the counter and grabs the perpetrator by the collar of his shirt and yanks him forward, lifting him an inch off of his feet for more than a brief second.

Jared is six foot three. The muscles he has are from years of lifting babies, strollers, car seats, backpacks, diaper bags, and holiday meals. And above all else, the one thing he’s perfected?

His mom voice.

“I think it’s best you leave,” Jared growls, face to face with his attacker. “And don’t you ever think about coming back here again.”

Matilda takes her place beside Jared and nods towards the customer. Her body language says that she won’t try and hold Jared back.

The fiend warbles some pathetic attempt at retaliation, but shuts up the second Jared lets him go with a less than friendly shove. With the eyes of the entire cafe on him, the customer leaves, stumbling over his own feet.

Jared wipes down with a rag and asks Matilda for the rest of the day off.

He heads home.

 

One hot shower later and the smell of ice coffee almost disappears.

Jared ignores the fact that it isn’t even sundown and crawls into his pajamas. After he changes clothes, he stares at his bed, longing for the feel of the mattress and pillows. He is tired+.

Standing at the foot of the bed, he picks up details of Jensen’s morning. He must have been rushed. The bed isn’t made. And he probably didn’t sleep well; the sheets are all twisted and bunched up. And he forgot his notebook on his nightstand, which probably threw him off the whole day. He keeps notes in there about the progress of certain plants and the acidity of soils. He makes lists of new plants to purchase and different irrigation systems. School has gone well for him. They each have one more semester to complete their certifications. The plan was for Jared to start a cupcake business, one he could do from home so he’d be able to have the baby without the stress of being on his feet all day. Then, Jensen would ask Ken for a raise, since he acquired more professional qualifications.

Those were the plans.

Jared skims his fingers over a patch of bed on Jensen’s side.

A sinking, cold feeling of dread rolls through his stomach. He hasn’t touched Jensen, even just for a hug, for too long. He hasn’t kissed him, held his hand, or rubbed his back. They haven’t stood, forehead to forehead, cracking jokes and catching up on their respective days. They haven’t gone to bed and kissed and tried their best to be quiet.

It’s like missing a limb.

And he’s been through something similar before.

How did he get so bitter?

A song tugs at his chest, climbing over the tightness there. _Your faith was strong, but you needed proof. You saw her bathing on the roof, a beauty in the moonlight overthrew you. She broke your throne, she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the hallelujah._

Dirt roads and dead ends and high expectations. The Bible on hand and the Devil in sight.

_Maybe I have been here before, I know this room, I walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you._

The Waffle House down the street. The bus stop. The shelter. The one girl who spent the night and bothered to say hi to Jared and gave him a coupon for free waffles. The first interview at Disney and he wondered why life had taken such a strange turn. Milo’s hands. All that nausea. The funeral he never got to go to. The kids he never met. The daddy they know.

_I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch. Love is not a victory march._

That angry, frustrated Storybook Canal employee who showed nothing but concern for that lost little girl the very first time they met.

Their first kiss on the balcony of Tristan’s apartment. Jared begged Jensen not to start something they couldn’t finish. He pushed him away, because that was what instinct told him was right.

_It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah._

And it’s telling him to do it all over again.

_Maybe there’s a God above and all I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you. It’s not a cry you can hear at night. It’s not somebody who’s seen the light._

_It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah._

Push Jensen away and keep him at that distance. Stay guarded. Stay safe.

From the doorway to the hall, a gentle knock sounds out. Jensen stands there, twenty, twenty-one, and twenty-seven years old all at once. Home from work. Wringing his hands. Waiting, his faith still strong.

Jared doesn’t immediately recognize the sound of his own voice.

“In the early hours of this morning it was far too hot for anyone to sleep. You told me I was strange and kissed me. Sunk your teeth into my soft bottom lip twice. So hard I thought you drew blood.

I keep getting the feeling that if you look at me for long enough you may see that I have a thousand fears. My thoughts about you are frighteningly precise. I can see the house on the hill where we grow our own vegetables out back and drink warm wine out of jam jars and sing songs in the kitchen until the sun comes up.

You make me feel like myself again. Myself before I had any solid reasons to be anything else.

You are terror and brilliance.

So. I am the kind of woman who is already teaching my body to miss yours without craving.

I am the type of woman who is already teaching my heart to miss yours without failing.

Every time you leave the room I worry. And think that perhaps. I have imagined you. And maybe. You have imagined me.”

One minute of silence and the words embed themselves in the hardwood floor between them. Ridiculous questions, Jared can handle. But the next question asked is anything but.

“Please,” Jensen says, a break in his voice. “Can we talk?”

He shuts the door. They sit.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Hallelujah" as sung by Rufus Wainwright. 
> 
> "sthandwa sami (my beloved, isiZulu)" by Yrsa Daley-Ward.
> 
> Thank you for hanging in there while I got this up! So happy to come back to these guys, even with the angst. It was nice to really get into Jared's pov here and to finally have them talking again. <3 They'll make it. 
> 
> Comments are love! Please let me know what you liked about this, what you want to see, etc. Comments make my day. :D


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